Ten Steps

Author’s Note: Thanks to Kasey and Shannon for their Beta work on this chapter and thanks to all of you who have reviewed so far. I think I should warn you in advance that this chapter has zero Draco, but I think you’ll be okay with that in the end and I'll make up for it in the next chapter.

Chapter 23 Portkeys and Other Disasters

The shadows from the leafless trees along Whitehorn Boulevard were long and dark. It was Harry’s favorite time of the year, and he was basking in the cool air of London in winter. It had taken a bit of persuasion on his part, but Oliver had finally agreed to pause his endless Quidditch training to take a trip with him. They both had busy schedules, but Harry had worked nonstop through the holiday season, and he felt he deserved some time off, not to mention Draco had practically ordered him to take it.

Oliver on the other hand was reluctant to leave his teammates for an entire week, but Harry assured him that they would continue to practice without his overseeing their every move. Now, Harry was on his way to Oliver’s flat to pick him up and whisk him away on their surprise vacation. It wasn’t until he reached the bright red door that Oliver told him he should look out for; that Harry realized this was the first time he’d ever been to his boyfriend’s place.

How odd was that?

He was forced to wonder how many couples would date for months before seeing where their partner lived. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal until he stood on the stairs leading up to that fire engine red door. Oliver was often out of town or on the Pitch, and when he wasn’t, he was at Harry’s. Was there a reason Oliver had never invited him over? Was there something inside the flat he was ashamed of? Perhaps there were dead bodies buried under the floorboards.

Harry physically shook himself with a laugh. Of course there was nothing like that. This was Oliver he was talking about; the man wouldn’t hurt a flobberworm. Besides, there was likely a perfectly good reason for not having Harry over before now, and he certainly hadn’t been reluctant when Harry offered to meet him there this time. Oliver’s place was all the way across town, not that it mattered when they could Apparate, but maybe his boyfriend was just being considerate by always suggesting they meet at Harry’s flat.

Knocking on the door, Harry tried to calm his nerves. Perhaps Oliver was a slob and embarrassed to let Harry see it. He could live with that. Ron had been horribly untidy, his things always strewn about their dorm and common room like he was still at the Burrow. He’d lived with that for six years, not even counting the mess he’d made of the tent they used when on the Horcrux hunt. There was nothing to worry about.

The door opened and Harry peered in, trying to see if Oliver had hidden behind the door. Only when he stepped forward and nearly stepped on a squeaking house-elf did he realize Oliver wasn’t near the door at all.

“I’m here to see Oliver,” Harry explained to the tiny, offended creature.

“Master Wood be expecting you,” the house-elf announced and moved aside for Harry to pass into a well-lit foyer. “He’s in the study.”

One thing was clear the moment Harry began moving through the house, looking for his boyfriend. Oliver was not messy. The entire home was open, bright and airy, and the word minimalist would have been an understatement. Oliver had virtually no personal items out. No, photographs, no books, not even a Quidditch trophy marred the perfectly white walls or stark maple furnishings. Everything was flat, clean lines and sharp glass surfaces. It reminded Harry of a museum, minus the art.

Harry walked through a living room, a dining room and down a long corridor before he found the study. Like the other rooms, this one had the same light-colored wood and the same Scandinavian design, but it seemed warmer somehow. The walls were painted a buttery yellow and lined with shelves. Unlike the rest of the house, the study was jammed with personal touches. Pictures of Oliver with various celebrities, all the trophies that had been missing from the other rooms were all packed in this small space. “Oliver,” Harry greeted, causing the man to look up from the paperwork on his desk.

“Harry, you made it. Any trouble finding the place?” he asked.

“None,” Harry replied and slinked over to the other side of the desk, laughing when he saw what Oliver was working on. The pile of ‘paperwork’ had really been a stack of publicity photos that Oliver was signing. His boyfriend beamed up at him from a hundred different portraits, clutching the handle of his broom as he grinned at the invisible photographer. “I bet your fans love these.”

Oliver shrugged. “I suppose. You’d be surprised how many women request nude shots,” he chuckled.

“Well, I want mine signed from that batch as well,” Harry remarked.

“Maybe I’ll give into that photographer from PlayWitch who’s been pestering me to do a spread,” Oliver teased with a wink.

Harry laughed, but when Oliver didn’t join in, his tone became hesitant. “You were kidding right?”

“Maybe we could do a shoot together?” he suggested, waggling his eyebrows. He pulled Harry against him and twined his hands around his boyfriend’s waist. “Just think of what kind of money a photo like that would bring in. Harry Potter and Oliver Wood,” he whispered.

Harry rolled his eyes, finally picking up on the teasing lilt in the man’s voice. He gave an exaggerated sigh and gently bit into the soft flesh of Oliver’s jugular. “I think the fully-clothed pictures they already have of us are quite enough, thanks.”

Oliver chuckled and released Harry to put away his headshots. “When are you going to ease up on the media?” he pressed. “It’s not like they’re going away anytime soon.”

“I know,” Harry sighed, “and I’m okay with them, but that doesn’t mean I have to court celebrity like you do.”

“Like I do?” Oliver repeated, looking mildly affronted.

“It’s fine, I mean, I get it. You do it for the team, but I don’t have Quidditch fans to appease with signed portraits of myself. I’m the only Auror getting the kind of attention the press gives me. You’d think that over a decade would be long enough for people to get over me,” Harry huffed.

“Do you expect me to get over you after just ten measly years?” Oliver cooed, grabbing Harry’s wrist.

“No,” Harry breathed, and then Oliver was kissing him, his tongue probing and plundering his mouth. Harry shivered at the touch, but pulled away after a moment. “We’re going to be late for our Portkey.”

Oliver pouted but nodded, running his fingertips along Harry’s arm. “I’m packed and ready,” he replied, gesturing toward a suitcase in the corner.

“Good,” Harry replied and pulled a quail feather from his pocket. “We leave in less than a minute.”

Bags in hand, the Portkey activated, sending the men to Harry’s requested destination. Harry felt a little shaky upon arrival, but tried to quell it so that he could take in Oliver’s reaction.

“A cabin?” Oliver asked tentatively as he absorbed their new location. Honey colored logs surrounded them and Harry grinned. It was even better than it had looked in the brochure. The windows were frosted with snow, the ceiling offered lofty expanses and richly carved beams and all the furniture looked soft and comfortable – perfect for snuggling.

On the far side of the living room was an enormous fireplace constructed of stacked stone in the prettiest slate gray and Harry could easily see them bundled up by the fire, or making love on the bearskin rug by the hearth.

“It’s great,” Oliver said, but Harry got the impression he was only trying to keep his spirits light so as not to disappoint him.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked. “Is it the moose head?” he prodded, gesturing to the antlered beast above the mantel. “I can Vanish the moose head.”

“The moose head is…fine, Harry. Albeit a bit creepy,” he added. “I was just assuming that since it was winter in London, that you’d pick somewhere more…tropical.”

Harry sighed and chewed at his bottom lip. Two minutes in and Harry was already failing to meet his boyfriend’s expectations. He was terrible at dating. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you where you wanted to go.”

“Harry, no.” Oliver pulled Harry to him and plied his face with tender kisses. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

Harry sighed and leaned into his boyfriend’s attention, hoping the man wasn’t just trying to placate him.

Harry had four blissful hours devoted to unpacking, making hot cocoa and snogging his boyfriend senseless, and then suddenly, his holiday went to hell.

He shifted under Oliver’s hips, feeling their erections rub together beneath the layers of cotton trousers between them. They were planted by the fire atop the bearskin rug Harry had imagined rolling around on, and a warm fire was blazing in the fireplace. Everything was perfect – or should have been.

Unfortunately, Harry couldn’t seem to get comfortable.

Oliver moaned against him, grinding his clothed cock into Harry’s thigh and Harry realized with a sudden start what this meant. Tonight was the night Harry was meant to give himself over to Oliver completely. Only something was wrong.

“I can’t,” Harry gasped, shifting so that he couldn’t feel Oliver’s erection anymore. “The moose,” he complained, when Oliver pursed his lips and frowned down at him. “It’s watching me with its judgy eyes.”

“Harry, it’s dead. I assure you the moose is not judging us,” Oliver chuckled, his voice deep with lust.

“I just…it feels wrong,” Harry muttered lamely.

“Harry…is this…is this your first time with a man?” Oliver asked, and Harry nearly choked on his own laughter.

“My first time? Merlin, no. I’ve done this thousands of times,” he balked. “Well, not thousands, obviously. I’m not a slut or anything, but a few other times at least. Less than a dozen partners for sure, but more than six,” he babbled.

“So, then what’s the problem?” Oliver asked, interrupting Harry’s seemingly endless stammering. “You bring me here on this surprise romantic vacation and then suddenly you’re concerned about a moose? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted honestly. “I just know I can’t do this. Not right this moment.”

“Okay,” Oliver sighed, though he looked rather hurt and confused, two things Harry had hoped not to see on the man’s face while they were away. Oliver fell against him, settling for twining their bodies together and offered up long, lingering kisses.

Harry didn’t understand. He was hard as a rock, turned on beyond belief, Oliver was clearly ready, Draco had given him the okay, and it wasn’t like this was some cheap one-night stand. Who cared if Harry was still a few encounters away from being in love with the Quidditch star? He’d certainly fucked blokes without loving them before, so why was now any different?

Because he wanted this to be different. He wanted the next person he slept with to be the one, and despite the fact that Oliver was spectacular in every way, Harry couldn’t ignore the niggling feeling that he wasn’t that one. And that the person he was meant to spend the rest of his life with was, in fact, waiting for him to come knocking on his door and confess his undying devotion. He realized, with a start, that he wouldn’t be surprised if this person had perfect blond hair and the most stunning gray eyes Harry had ever seen.

Harry pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, wishing he could bury that thought back where it belonged, but it refused to budge. “Harry?” Oliver whispered, his voice filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Headache,” Harry lied. “Maybe a delayed reaction from the Portkey,” he added, another lie.

“We should get you to bed then,” Oliver replied, maneuvering himself so that he could lift Harry up and carry him to the bedroom. It should have felt sweet and romantic, but instead, all Harry could think was that he was betraying Draco by being there with Oliver.

The next morning brought more snow and more upset as Harry woke to find the bed empty and cold. He got up, stumbled into the living room and smiled when he saw Oliver leaning over the fireplace. “You could have warmed those icy hands against my hot body,” Harry suggested with a chuckle, but Oliver only turned and held up a finger to his lips before returning to the fire again.

“I understand,” Oliver was saying. “But this wasn’t planned. I’ll be back in a week.”

Harry rounded the sofa and saw the face of a portly man in the fireplace, his jowls vibrating with angry huffing.

“I’m not paying you to gallivant with your gay lover, Wood. I pay you to play Quidditch,” the man growled.

“Harry is my boyfriend, Sir. It’s the same as Joseph or Christopher taking time off to spend with their wives,” he corrected.

“They don’t take time off during the season, Wood. I thought you of all people would know that,” the man told him. It was made difficult because of the flying embers and crackling fire, but Harry eventually recognized the man as Philbert Deverill, the team’s owner and financier. “You’ve always been so dedicated before this Potter man came along. Now you seem distracted during practice and we almost lost that last game against the Kestrels!”

“We won by three hundred points, boss. I hardly call that ‘almost losing’,” Oliver scoffed.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Deverill shouted. “The Oliver of last season would have been appalled by those margins!”

“Well, maybe I’m not that man anymore,” Oliver quipped.

“Well, then maybe you’re not captain material anymore, Wood. You can dally there in Aspen with your boyfriend, but if you don’t get back here tonight, Logan will find himself promoted.” And with that, the fire call ended, leaving Oliver flushing with anger.

“Did you hear that?” he demanded, rounding on Harry as if he were the one to threaten Oliver’s job.

“I heard,” Harry replied. “You did the right thing, standing up to him.”

Oliver glowered at the floor, not deigning to look up into Harry’s expectant eyes. Harry had hoped this might be a turning point, that if Oliver was stripped of captain, then maybe they’d actually get to spend some time together. Although, this certainly wasn’t the way he wanted it to happen.

Still, he suspected that he could easily fall in love with the man if given more time alone with him, and then he could finally dispel the traitorous thoughts he’d been having about Malfoy.

“I want to go back,” Oliver said.

Harry shook his head, trying to ignore the hateful voice that told Harry things would never change. “What?” he asked, hoping he’d misunderstood.

“I want to go back,” he repeated, as if the problem was that Harry hadn’t heard him. “I need to. Logan isn’t ready to be captain.”

“Who cares?” Harry balked.

“I do!” Oliver shouted, directing the ire he had toward the team owner on Harry instead.

“If you run to his beck and call now, he’s going to know he owns you, not just the team,” Harry snapped.

“I’m part of the team, Harry. I’m their leader. Would you have abandoned Ron and Hermione during the war?” he asked.

“Are you daring to compare my fight with Voldemort to your silly Quidditch games?” Harry seethed.

“Silly?” Oliver hissed. “You love Quidditch.”

“I do love Quidditch. I just hoped that when I got married, it would be to you, not the Quaffle!” Harry shouted, before covering his mouth as if that might retract his words. He wasn’t willing to make Oliver stay because of some future they might not ever have. Not at this rate anyhow.

Besides, who was he to stand in Oliver’s way when Harry himself was so conflicted?

Oliver seemed to sense his reluctance to keep yelling, so he lowered his own voice and stepped closer to where Harry stood, arms wrapped around his body as if he were embracing himself.

“Harry, you knew this about me when we met,” Oliver sighed, obviously not wanting to fight.

“You knew I was an Auror when we met, yet I’m about to put in my resignation so that you’ll feel better!” Harry shouted. He didn’t care if they had an all out brawl. He was hurt, angry and determined to settle this thing tonight.

“About to? I thought you’d said you had already spoken to Kingsley,” Oliver said, his eyebrows furrowed into a frown.

“Well, I lied!” Harry countered. “Apparently I knew you were a hypocrite!”

“I never told you to leave the Auror Division, Harry. That was your decision,” Oliver seethed.

“Yes, it was. Because you made it clear that if my work habits didn’t change, than neither would yours!” he bit out. Harry paced, running his hand through his hair and tugging at it when he reached the ends. “If this is how our relationship is destined to be, then I don’t know if you’re the right person for me.”

“Oh, I suppose I know who is!” Oliver balked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry stopped and stared, his green gaze wide and furious.

“You know exactly what it means. You’d rather be with Malfoy than me,” he huffed.

“You’re being childish,” Harry scoffed, but Oliver’s words seemed to create a pocket in his thoughts that he couldn’t ignore. Yes, he would have been perfectly happy on this trip with Malfoy. He would have been content lounging by the fire, sipping hot cocoa and telling stories about their life. He would have enjoyed snuggling underneath twenty layers of blankets and cocooning himself around Draco’s warm body. In fact, had it been Draco there with him, he probably would have been having a better time all along.

“That wasn’t a denial,” Oliver noted.

“Just go. Get back to your precious Puddlemere United,” Harry hissed. “I’ll see you when I get back to London.”

Oliver’s face contorted briefly between anger and guilt before settling on the latter. “Harry,” he sighed, looking completely defeated. “I’ll stay if that’s what you want.”

Harry turned away from the man and shook his head. “I want you here, but not if you’d rather be somewhere else.”

“Harry,” he tried again, and judging by the sound of his voice, he’d grown closer, probably prepared to pull him into another embrace.

“Just go,” Harry said, softly but sternly. This vacation was important to him, for their relationship, for their future, and if Oliver didn’t recognize that, then maybe he was right. Maybe the magic had made a mistake and Oliver wasn’t his match after all. Maybe he should have invited Draco, who he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about whether he was there or not.

He felt the sudden emptiness of the room before he heard Oliver leave, although the metallic click of the front door echoed through him with a finality he hadn’t been expecting.

Author’s Note: Did anyone else’s heart just break a little? I'm trying to get this finished and updated before I leave down for Thanksgiving, but that doesn't look like the most likely scenario since I don't have all the edits done for the final chapter. I wonder if I should leave you here, or post 24 before I leave...because you might all hate me if I post 24 and then leave you hanging for a full week...Decisions, Decisions. Either way, I'll try very hard not to die on my trip so that you get to read the end of this story. *grin